The Lady In Red
by MaverickLover2
Summary: In case you don't believe in Lady Luck, Bart Maverick provides five different stories that explain why he and Brother Bret do.
1. First Sighting

Chapter 1 – First Sighting

I must have been about fourteen the first time I saw the Lady in Red. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, and I had no idea who she was. I was playin' poker in the Little Bend Bar; my father was there at another table. I hadn't been playing real well and I was gettin' discouraged, the way only a fourteen-year-old boy can.

I'd made a deal with Pappy that I would find a job if I couldn't make money playin' cards every night during the summer. And on this particular night I was down to my last six dollars. That's all that stood between me and painful employment.

Oh, it wouldn't really be painful, but to a fourteen-year-old that wanted to do nothing more than play cards and sleep all summer it would be the worst fate imaginable. So I was in a most desperate state when the next game started.

And that's when I saw her. Tall and lithe, she was dark haired and dark eyed, and wore a magnificent long red gown. What a woman, much less one that looked like that, was doing inside an ancient saloon with a dirt floor, was beyond me. All I could do was stare and wait for my eyes to fall out.

No one else at the table I was sitting at gave any indication that she was visible to them. I was sure I was losin' my mind, but as long as I could see her I didn't care. She was standing at the end of the bar, doing nothing more than watching the goings-on inside this tiny local saloon. I felt like something was about to happen, but I had no idea what.

We were playin' five-card draw, my favorite game, and I couldn't believe the hand I'd been dealt when I picked up my cards. A king, three sevens and a jack. It was difficult to keep a straight face – while all I'd gotten was three of a kind, it was still the best hand I'd held all night. Bidding was small – these were local farmers and cattlemen I was playin' against, not professional gamblers. By the time we'd bid around and drew our cards, I was down to three dollars. I was sweatin' somethin' fierce, and when I looked up from my cards my eyes locked with the woman's right before I turned my cards over. I'd discarded the king and the jack and drawn an ace – and the seven of hearts.

It was hard at that age not to show emotion. I was just learning the meaning of 'poker-face' and even though I understood it, sometimes it was difficult to practice it. I did everything I could to remain emotionless and unreadable, and I guess I succeeded as much as I was capable of succeeding. The bidding went around the table again, and by the time it got back to me all I could do was bet the last dollar I had and pray.

There were three of us left vying for the pot, which was worth about twenty-five or thirty dollars at this point. I held my breath as my two opponents lay down their cards. The first one had three nines. Art Murphy's hand consisted of a straight, ace high. I called my hand as "four sevens" and watched Murphy's face fall. I could feel my entire body trembling as I raked in the pot, but I remained straight-faced and sober as best as any fourteen-year-old who'd just had his entire summer saved could. I never said a word; I wasn't capable of normal speech at that exact moment.

After I gathered in my winnings I looked up to see the expression on the Lady in Red's face. She was gone. I searched the room frantically, certain she couldn't have just disappeared into thin air, but that's exactly what had happened. There was no trace of her anywhere in the saloon.

The rest of the night was almost anti-climactic. My winning ways continued, and by the time Pa was ready to call it a night I had won upwards of sixty dollars, a fortune to me. "Good night, boy?" he asked as we walked out into the crisp night air.

"A very good night, Pappy," I replied, not sure if I should ask my question or not. We mounted our horses and headed for home, and we were more than halfway there before I worked up the courage to ask. "Pappy, did you see her?"

"See who, Bartley?"

"Uh . . . the lady that was in the saloon."

"Tweren't no lady in the saloon tonight, Bartley." His voice was firm and steady, like he was absolutely positive of the words he'd spoken.

"Sure there was, Pappy. She was beautiful. Tall and dark-haired, and she wore the most brilliant red dress. She looked right at me. You didn't see her?"

Pappy didn't answer right away, and I thought he was gonna tell me I was plum crazy. There was just enough moonlight for me to see the smile that spread across his face when he answered me. "No, son, I didn't see her. But I'm sure you did. Do you know who she was?"

I shook my head before answering. "No, sir, no idea. Who was she?"

"That, my boy, was Lady Luck. I doubt if that's the last time you'll ever see her. She tends to show up when you least expect it."

"But Pa . . . "

"No buts, Bartley. Take my word for it."

"Yes, sir."

How could I believe him? He was telling me that I'd seen something that wasn't real, like Santa Claus. Then again, how could I not believe him? This was Beauregard Maverick, my Pappy, a man that had never lied to me, no matter how painful the truth might be. I chewed on his words the rest of the way home, before deciding that until I could prove otherwise, I would accept what my father had told me.

It might have been my first encounter with the Lady in Red, but it sure wouldn't be my last.


	2. Courtesy of the Apache

Chapter 2 – Courtesy of the Apache

The next time I remembered seeing Lady Luck had nothing to do with poker. About a year into the War, Bret and me had been drafted by the Confederate army. They were desperate at that point, and were willin' to take anybody that could hold a gun. We were lucky; we survived almost three years of fighting the Yankees and another six months of near starvation at Camp Douglas.

Just when we thought we'd be fortunate to live another day, a cavalry major appeared and offered us a way out. "Sign an oath of loyalty to the United States and you'll be sent to the west to fight Indians for two years." Anything was better than what we'd endured at Douglas, and we signed. Cleaned up and given new uniforms, we were assigned to Fort Myers in Arizona. Most of the time things were fairly quiet, but there was one period where the Apache decided they'd been confined to the reservation long enough and escaped to the Sonoran Desert. Naturally, me and Bret were part of the patrol that was sent out to persuade them to return home.

For three days and nights we rode without finding a trace of Apache or anybody else. On the morning of the fourth day one of the scouts found fresh tracks, and before too long we'd located the war party they belonged to. They weren't goin' back to the res, we weren't goin' back without 'em. And the battle was on.

Sometime during the fight I caught an arrow in the calf of my left leg. It hurt like hell, especially after one of the other Johnny Rebs broke it off so I could ride. We herded the Apache back to the fort and I went straight to the Infirmary. Major Washington was the doctor and he got the arrowhead out after a battle, but within two days the leg was infected and I was being threatened with amputation.

Bret was worried sick. He stayed with me as much as he could day and night while Doc did everything he knew to save my leg and ultimately my life. The infection had taken hold of me, and I was almost sure that losing a leg was better than dying. Almost being the operative word, since Bret and me had been determined to return to Little Bend, Texas and start a cattle ranch.

The sicker I got the less likely that seemed to be in my future, and that's when I began to think about an even earlier dream we'd had – to be poker players, just like Pappy, and travel the country playin' cards. I was convinced I wouldn't need my left leg to do that, and was on the verge of lettin' Doc cut it off. I hung on for two more days until Bret had sentry duty one night and I was all by myself in the Infirmary. Things must have gotten really bad, because I was in and out of consciousness the whole time my brother was gone.

And that's when I saw her again. Just as beautiful as ever, she was sitting on the edge of my cot the next time I was conscious. She had eyes the same color as Bret's, that dark, dark black color, and a smile as big and bright as the sun. I was sure I was dying because it was instantly obvious, even to me in the fevered state I was in, that she wasn't there.

I was ready to let go when I felt her take my hand in hers. Her hands were soft, with cool skin and a gentle touch, and I could see her red dress as it brushed up against me. I must have passed out, because I woke sometime later to see Brother Bret's face lookin' down at me, and he was smiling. "What's that for?" I whispered, but I knew what his answer was gonna be even before he spoke.

"Your fever broke. Doc says there ain't no more reason to amputate."

"Course not," I murmured as my eyes slowly closed again. "She was here, Bret. I saw her."

"Who was here, Bart? Who are you talkin' about?"

"The lady in red, Bret. Who else? She was here . . . " and I drifted off again.

I slept through the night and the next time I woke it was daylight. Doc Washington was there, examining my leg, and even he was smiling. "You are one lucky soldier boy, private. I was ready to amputate that leg. I've never seen a fever that high break that fast. You got some kind of secret power we don't know about?"

"Wasn't me, Doc. It was the lady in red. She healed me."

Major Washington looked at me like I was out of my mind, and in a way I guess he was right. "The lady in red?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir. You know, Lady Luck? She was here. She sat right down beside me and held my hand."

"Son, you better go back to sleep. You're talkin' crazy."

I could see that my explanation was gettin' me nowhere. If I didn't shut my mouth I'd go from the infirmary to the stockade, so I did just that. "Sorry, sir, must be the remains of the fever." And I closed my eyes before the major could say anything else.

I dozed on and off for the rest of the day; the fever had raged for almost five days and exhausted me. When I finally felt somebody sit down on my cot I half expected to see the lady again, but when I opened my eyes it was my brother. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for him to say something, while he sat there and stared at me. "Bart?" was the only word that came out of his mouth.

"Bret?" I answered back.

"Did you really see her?" Those coal black eyes were open wider than I'd ever seen them.

"Who?" My turn to play dumb.

"Lady Luck."

"Bret, she ain't real."

There was a look of . . . panic in those same eyes. "But you said . . . "

I couldn't patronize him anymore. "I saw her. She sat right where you are, and she was just as beautiful as the first time. You've seen her, haven't you?" My question was most sincere. I hated to think that she'd never appeared to him. But then, maybe I was the only one blessed . . . or cursed.

He looked at me a long time before he finally murmured, "Yes."

I gave him the biggest smile I could manage. The thought had been planted in my mind that maybe Bret and me weren't cut out to be cattlemen . . . after all, why would Lady Luck hang out around cattlemen? As I closed my eyes again I reached for my brother's hand. Those fingers were made for playing cards . . . not herding steers. But it would be some time before big brother came to the same conclusion. And I knew it was only a matter of time before the lady appeared to one or the other of us again.


	3. Misfire

Chapter 3 – Misfire

 _The conversation I'd had with Bret about Lady Luck came up again after we'd gotten out of the Army. That's when he confessed to me he'd lied when I asked if he'd seen her; the lie grated on him until he admitted the truth. I think it may be the only lie my brother ever told me._

 _He finally broke down and revealed to me the tale of his first meeting with the lady._

I didn't want to admit to my brother that I hadn't encountered anyone or anything that could be termed Lady Luck; Pappy had spoken of her on many occasions, and even Uncle Ben had mentioned her once or twice. They made it quite clear you couldn't depend on her to show up, especially when you needed her help; she had her own ideas about when to appear and when to let you dig yourself out of your own mess. And I convinced myself I didn't need her, until the day I did.

I was in Canyon, Texas, a little town about forty miles south of Amarillo. I'd been there for two days already; the natives were friendly, the girls flirtatious, and it felt comfortable. I'd been playin' poker with a rotating group of town folk; eight or nine different men that came and went. Most of them were decent at the game, one or two were even fairly well versed in poker prowess. I'd run my stake up, then lose a little, then start winning again. Nobody seemed to get upset when they lost, and it was an enjoyable sojourn.

Usually I don't stay longer than a few hours, maybe a day, in a town the size of Canyon, but I was supposed to meet Bart in Amarillo the day after tomorrow. The only other place with decent poker anywhere in the vicinity was Hereford and, quite frankly, I'd had my fill of 'cattle' jokes. So I stayed in Canyon and played poker with Art, Eddie, Jimbo, Henry, Phil, Sam, Alvin, Burt and Milton. Oh yeah, and Iverson. Iverson was quite an unusual name, and Iverson was quite an unusual fellow.

Maybe forty years old, his hair had turned silver years ago (so everyone told me). He had a round face with a pointy chin, and eyes that were milky blue. He seemed to be about the most even-tempered man I'd ever met – nothing bothered him. That was a good thing, because he was by far the worst poker player in the bunch. And Iverson was loquacious to a fault – well-liked, but everyone breathed a sigh of relief when he left the game for a while, because we finally had some peace and quiet.

Like I said, I'd been in Canyon for the better part of two days and had no inclination to go anywhere else. The Silver Lady Hotel was comfortable and cheap, the Canyon Queen Saloon provided decent food and superior coffee, and they had a real live saloon girl that served more or less as a barmaid. Her name was Sherri and she was a pretty thing, with dark blonde hair and a turned-up nose. She smiled at me every time she filled my coffee cup, and I didn't hesitate to smile back. Like I said, she was a pretty thing.

We'd just started playing five-card stud on the afternoon of my third day in Canyon, and it was the early group at the table – Art, Eddie, Henry, Alvin and me. Sherri hadn't started work yet and Stan, the bartender, was keeping us supplied with our choice of beverage. "Do you ever drink?" Eddie asked out of curiosity.

"Not if I can help it," was the answer I gave him.

"Any particular reason?" came from Alvin.

"Don't like the taste much, tends to make me sick," I answered truthfully, "and I live by one rule – I never drink when I'm workin'."

"But you smoke," Henry pointed out rather needlessly, since I had a cigar in my mouth at that particular moment.

"Yup." What else was there to say?

"Don't seem right, smokin' and not drinkin'." Art sounded like I'd insulted his two favorite pastimes.

"Seems right to me."

That was the end of the discussion, for the time being at least. I won that hand when I turned over my hole card and finished with three eights. The next two hands also came my way, then Eddie beat me with a small straight to my two pair. By the time we started the fourth game, Iverson had joined us for a rare afternoon appearance. There was also no doubt about it – he'd started drinking a long time before he got to the saloon.

The next hand had just gotten underway when Iverson bellowed, "STAN! Bring over a bottle!"

Stan hesitated, and Henry asked, "Ain't it a little early for that?"

Iverson shook his head. "Nope. Ain't never too early for a bottle. And bring Maverick a glass, too."

"I don't drink, Iverson. Remember?" Obviously he'd just missed the talk about whiskey and cigars.

"You gotta have one with me, Bret. Just one."

I shook my head. "I don't like the stuff, never have. I'll pass, thanks."

There was something going on here besides just too much liquor. Alvin and Art exchanged glances, and Eddie leaned over to me and whispered, "Now's the time to break that rule of yours, if ever there was one."

"Why, Eddie? What's this all about?" I queried back.

"Hey, you two, stop chatterin'. It's time to have a drink," Iverson insisted as Stan arrived with a bottle and the aforementioned empty glass. He set the bottle in front of Iverson and the glass in front of me.

I picked up the glass and handed it back to Stan. "No, thanks."

The normally even-tempered man began to anger, and I still didn't know what this was all about. "Leave the glass, Stan," Iverson ordered. I'd never seen him like this; insistent, belligerent and rude.

"Somebody tell me what's goin' on," I pleaded, "before things get too out-of-hand."

Stan returned to the bar and then called out to Iverson, "I got another bottle for you, Iverson, if you'll come get it."

"He doesn't need another bottle," I protested, just as Iverson got up and staggered to the bar.

"Maverick," Henry leaned forward. "Listen, quick. This happens every year. Iverson's wife left him for a card sharp three years ago. He gets rip-roarin' drunk and ain't nothin' nobody can do about it. Please, please, have a drink with him. Just one drink, that's all it takes."

"I can't Henry. Unless you wanna see a grown man leave his insides all over the table. And it ain't real pleasant." That was only a slight exaggeration. MOST of the time when whiskey went down my gullet, whatever was in my stomach came back up, a miserable experience. And I had a full stomach at that exact moment.

Before anything else could be said, Iverson returned to the table with his second bottle. "Drink up, everybody. Y'all know what day this is." He watched as the bottle was passed around and all the glasses filled, even the one sitting in front of me. There had to be a way out of this, but I'll be danged if I could see it.

Everyone at the table raised their glass, me included, thinking I could fool Iverson into believing I'd joined them in the toast to his, as he put it, 'ex-whore.' When his friends drank, I quietly set my glass back down. As drunk as he was, Iverson wasn't fooled. "Drink, Maverick."

"I just can't, Iverson. I'm sorry."

"Drink, Maverick. Or else."

I didn't like the look in his eye, and I noticed that his right hand had disappeared under the table. I had the premonition that there was now a gun pointed at my belly, and it was not a pleasing prospect. And that's when I saw her. The lady in red.

She was just like Bart described her – long dark hair, coal black eyes, tall and slender, in a flame red dress that clung to every curve of her body. She looked at me and smiled just as I heard the hammer on Iverson's gun pulled back, but before I could flinch or even breathe. There was a 'click' when he pulled the trigger, and then . . . nothing. The gun had refused to fire. Lady Luck kept right on smiling while I held my breath and watched Art take the weapon away from Iverson. Alvin and Eddie got on either side of him and removed him from the table, taking him into the saloon's back room to sleep it off. Art slapped me on the back, he swears I was turnin' blue.

I looked for the black-eyed brunette but she was gone, and at the exact moment I broke out into a cold sweat. "What . . . was that?" I managed to choke out.

"Told you to drink with him," Henry replied.

I got up from my seat and managed to stagger outside, where I leaned against the hitching post for support and to recover from the shock of almost bein' shot because I wouldn't take a drink. Why had Iverson's gun refused to fire? It took a minute for the truth to hit me – I was alive because Lady Luck had chosen that exact moment to smile at me.

I stood outside for almost ten minutes gettin' my bearings back, and then I walked inside and picked my money up off the table. "Thanks for the game, gents," I imparted to everyone at the table, and got out of there as fast as my legs could carry me.

I retrieved my horse from the livery and headed straight for Amarillo. I thought about the lady in red the whole trip, and just what I was gonna tell my brother. At last, I'd seen her. And she'd saved my life.


	4. No Burial Required

Chapter 4 – No Burial Required

 _According to Bret, there was one other time he saw Lady Luck that had nothing to do with poker._

I'd been in Dodge City for some time trying to find out who was responsible for the death of my friend, newspaper owner Taylor Clennon, and who controlled the protection racket that had half the town enmeshed. Rob Hinkel was the gunslinger that served as the muscle in Dodge and worked for Orin Johnson, but even knowing that much I'd come to an impasse. I wondered if I'd ever get the answers I was looking for when the issue came to an unexpected head one afternoon in McVerney's General Store.

I went to the store to buy somethin' small – I can't even remember what it was anymore. Inside I found Rob Hinkel harassing Mary Clennon, Taylor's widow. He wasn't alone, as usual he had four or five of his 'boys' with him. The closer I got to them the louder their argument got, until Hinkel grabbed the widow by the arm and practically snarled at her.

"Let go of Mrs. Clennon, Hinkel," I kept my voice calm and polite; I was badly outnumbered. There was no movement on Hinkel's part, and I repeated myself, just a bit louder. "Let go of the lady." Still no reaction from the hired gun. I reached out and laid my hand on Hinkel's arm, and repeated myself a third time. My voice was still low and I was smiling, but it made no difference. Rob let go of Mary's arm as he pulled his gun and pointed it at her.

"I've had enough of your stickin' your nose in where it don't belong, Maverick. Get outside now, or I'll put a bullet in her right here." There was a murderous look in his eye, and he pulled the hammer back on his gun. I didn't know exactly what he had in mind, but I had no intention of lettin' him shoot Mary Clennon without a fight, so I did as told. He shifted the focus of his gun from Mary to me, and I preceded him out of the store. One of his men had the widow Clennon by the arm with his gun trained on her, and they followed us out. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of red, but at that moment it had no significance to me at all.

"What are you doin', Rob?" I asked calmly.

"Gettin' rid of a thorn in my side," was his answer, and I realized it was his intent to kill me.

I started tryin' to talk him out of it, without begging or whining, but he was having none of it. "You got a gun on. Get outta here," and he shoved me off the sidewalk and out into the dirt street. With one swift movement he holstered his gun and stepped down into the dirt. I was doin' my best to figure a way out of this – a big step up for me would be to call me an average gun hand – and I knew I didn't stand a chance. I looked at Mary and saw another flash of red behind her, but I still didn't know what it meant.

I had exactly one chance – if Hinkel's gun misfired, I might be able to get out of this unscathed. I heard the subordinate's gun cock, and I backed up into the street as ordered. Taylor was already dead, I couldn't take the chance that they'd shoot Mary. I looked up the street towards the marshal's office, waitin' to see if the law was gonna be any help, but everything was deadly quiet. When I looked back at McVerney's, that's when I finally saw her – the lady in red. Everyone else had piled out onto the sidewalk, but she was standing all alone in the doorway. Beautiful as ever, I couldn't figure out exactly what Lady Luck was doin' here. Hinkel yelled somethin' and drew my attention back to him – his gun was out and he'd fired before my hand even reached my holster. I felt the impact of the bullet as it tore into my chest, and then – nothing.

According to Doc Walters, I wasn't breathing by the time he got to me, and he had my carcass hauled down to his office. And then, to his surprise, he found breath, and a faint pulse. He had no idea if I'd pull through or not, and he kept me in his back room and told no one. I was in and out of consciousness for days, and when the marshal sent for Bret Maverick's body to have it buried, Doc returned an unidentified corpse as mine, and that's what went into the ground on Boot Hill.

Walters nursed me back to health, one small inch at a time. The first time I opened my eyes was almost ten days later, and when I could finally focus I saw her again, but just briefly. She smiled and even spoke, calling my name faintly as if she was calling me back to life. It was a long, hard road, and it took me months before I was finally over most of it.

I never told anybody about seein' the lady in red – I figured I was just delusional. Now that I think back on it I'm not so sure. Like Brother Bart always says, seeing is believing. But I sure hope that if I ever spot her again, it'll be at a poker table, and not with a gun pointed at me.


	5. Miss Fortune

Chapter 5 – Miss Fortune

There was only one time both me and Bret saw the lady, and it was because of a big poker game that we were headed towards. I was ridin' into Sedona, Arizona from Kingman, and Bret was headed there from Gallup, New Mexico. We'd talked about meeting in Sedona but had never firmed up plans, so neither was sure that the other one would be there. The game was being held in the poker room of the Sedona Mountain Hotel, and I was the last one to arrive, even though Bret had further to ride.

When I signed into the hotel register I saw a familiar name. "Got anything next to Mr. Maverick's room?" I asked.

"Yes, sir, Mr. . . . Maverick. Right next door, four twenty-seven. His room is four twenty-five. Relatives, I assume?"

"Sort of," I answered, and left the hotel clerk to figure it out for himself. I trudged upstairs after riding all night and knocked on the door to four twenty-five.

"Who is it?" I heard yelled from the other side of the door.

"Room service," I replied in the most female sounding voice I could manage.

The door was yanked open by my brother, dressed only in his long johns. "Ain't no room service in this hotel," he laughed, and grabbed my outstretched hand, pulling me into the room.

"Did I interrupt something?" I questioned, given his state of undress.

He threw his arms around me and I almost gagged. Bret smelled somethin' awful of horse. Wet horse. It was obvious he was gettin' ready for a bath, and boy, did he need one.

"Run into a little weather, did we?" I asked.

"Nope," came the answer. "I ran into a lot of weather. What room are you in?"

"Don't beat on your walls at night, I'm right next door. And after that bear hug you gave me, I need a bath and clean clothes."

"Better get back downstairs and order one, then. It takes almost an hour before you can get one."

"I'll be right back," I threw the words over my shoulder and hurried back downstairs. "I need a bath drawn for room four twenty-seven."

The hotel clerk made a face, and I could tell that Bret had left his horse's scent on me. "Yes, sir. It will be ready at four forty-five. I take it that will be acceptable?"

"Yep."

Back upstairs I went. Bret had left the door ajar, and I walked in to find him disrobed down to his towel. "Meet you at five thirty in the dining room?"

"Sounds good to me. Catch you then," and he and his clean clothes disappeared down the hall.

I left his room and closed the door behind me, then walked into four twenty-seven. It was exactly the same as Bret's room, except there was no wet horse smell in it.

I hung my coats and put my shirts in the dresser, then lay down to see if I could get a short nap. Usually when I want to sleep I can't, but that wasn't a problem today. I slept until I heard the knocking on the door and the voice letting me know that my bath was ready. I got up and hurriedly got myself into the same state of undress Brother Bret had been in, grabbed my clothes and went to get clean. Forty minutes later I was shaved, dressed, and sittin' in the dining room downstairs drinking coffee and waiting for Bret to show.

He came scurrying in a few minutes later and we spent the whole meal catchin' up with each other. He'd run into Dandy Jim Buckley in Albuquerque and pronounced it one of their most benign encounters; why they can't get along I still haven't figured out. Jim irritates Bret; Bret aggravates Dandy. Me, I have no problem with either one of them. I love my brother and have an extremely high tolerance level for Jim. Buckley can be very useful if you know how to maneuver him.

I hadn't encountered any old friends (or enemies) along the way, but I'd heard that Anderson Garrett might be playing in the game we were headed for. I hadn't seen Anderson in quite a while and was hoping the rumor was true. That was one person that wouldn't bother Bret a bit; he liked Anderson. By this time we knew Ginny Malone, and I asked Bret if he'd seen her recently; his answer was a curt "No."

"Uh-oh, are we on the outs again?"

"No," he answered, "I just don't know where it's goin', is all."

"I do, but it'll probably take you years to figure it out."

"You should talk. Anything up with you and any ladies?"

"Nope," I told him, "I'm open to suggestions."

"There's sure to be some fine looking women here in Sedona. Considering the high-rollers this game is attracting."

"And what would they want with the likes of me?" I asked innocently.

Bret burst out laughing. "Yeah, you're really hurtin' in the ability to attract the female of the species."

"Back to what's important. You playin' draw or stud?"

"Stud, I think. It seems to be workin' better for me lately. You?"

"Definitely draw. That prevents us from playin' each other."

Bret kind of chuckled. "You talk like that's a bad thing."

"No, I don't see it that way. It gives us the chance to win both halves of the purse. Wouldn't that be nice for a change?"

"Don't count on it. You're gonna hafta get by Anderson to do that."

"Not impossible, by any means." Of course, I hadn't played against Garrett in a long time, and I seriously doubted that his game had devolved. Then again, I'd learned so much over the years and gained valuable experience that I didn't have when Anderson and me were last together.

"You playin' tonight?" Bret finally asked.

"Probably. How about you?"

He nodded. "Wanna see what's out there."

"Good luck," I told my brother. "Let me know if you run into the lady."

"Hmpf," he snorted. "Don't expect to see her here. This is strictly skill, Brother Bart. Luck's got nothin' to do with it."

"We'll see," were my parting words.

The poker games that night were inconsequential. Most of the highly skilled players had either not yet arrived or deigned not to play tonight. I just wanted to keep the feel of the cards on my fingertips, and by midnight I was in bed and asleep. I hadn't seen anything of Anderson, but that didn't mean much.

Bret and me had breakfast the next morning, then went to check in at the poker room. The stud poker games started right away – draw poker not until noon. I was headed back to my room to kill some time when I saw him at the front desk – Anderson Garrett. I knew it had been a while since I'd seen him, but I was shocked at the changes in the man I called my friend.

Anderson was tall and robust, with reddish brown hair. The man standing not ten feet away from me was white haired and thin, and his face was worn-out and haggard – he looked like he'd aged twenty years. I waited until he'd finished his business with the desk and turned my way. I was about to say something when he looked up and caught my eye. "Bart! Bart Maverick! I wondered if you'd be here!" No handshake for us, we embraced like the old friends we were before he pulled back to examine me. "You look good, Bart. The world must be treating you right."

"I'm doin' alright, Anderson. How are you? Is Rose with you?" Rose was Anderson's daughter, a girl I'd been enamored of, if not in love with, years ago. I'd heard from Anderson that she'd married, but I thought she and her husband might be there with him.

"I'm fine, Bart, doin' good for an old gambler past his prime. Rose didn't come this time; she and Riley are waitin' on baby number three. How about you? Is Bret with you? Or anybody else?"

I laughed. Anderson had tried to marry me off to Rose, and when that hadn't worked he'd taken a fatherly interest in my love life. "Bret's here, he's playin' stud this time. And no, there's nobody else with me. But there is somebody special back in Little Bend. You're playin' draw, right? We don't start until noon. Come on, come have some coffee with me and I'll tell you all about it. And you can fill me in on Rose and Riley."

We headed for the dining room and drank coffee for the next hour or so. Even with all the things I'd gone through, I still had an easier time of it than Anderson. It seems Riley Ketchum, Rose's husband, was an investment banker who'd had a string of bad luck . . . and Anderson and the ranch had suffered for it. There was no more imported coffee, no more fine clothes, and the ranch was on the verge of foreclosure. "That's why I'm here, Bart. I'm hoping to win enough to stop 'em from takin' my land away from me."

I remembered everything about the Garrett spread – but particularly how beautiful it was. "What can I do to help, Anderson?" I'd have given him the shirt off my back if he needed it.

"Don't play against me? I'm not as good as I used to be, Bart, and I'm hopin' we don't come up against each other. Your reputation precedes you."

I almost laughed. Wait until I told Bret about 'my reputation;' he'd howl like a banshee when he heard it. "I'm sure we'll both do well, Anderson. At least the games aren't winner take all."

Whoever had put this 'tournament' together had set up an elaborate payout schedule. The winner of each type of game (stud and draw) got twenty-five thousand dollars; the second-place finisher ten-thousand dollars, and so on down the line. Plus whatever you could win during the actual poker hands was yours to keep. If you won enough big hands you could make a small fortune. At least that's what I was hoping.

Finally it was time to head to the poker room and find our assigned tables. Mine was in the middle of the room, Anderson's toward the front. Bret's table was all the way at the rear, and it looked like he had just finished off the last of the men he was playing against. He looked up at I caught his eye and smiled. He just nodded and moved to the next open table.

We played all afternoon and evening, taking small breaks here and there, and by midnight the games were over for the day. Bret had beaten three full tables; I'd taken care of two. Anderson had also moved up two tables, and the three of us went to early breakfast at the café across the street, Minnie's Diner. By the time we finished with both food and talkin' it was almost three o'clock in the morning, and we were supposed to be back in the poker room at ten.

Anderson was on the floor below us at the hotel, and Bret and me discussed his situation as we climbed that last flight of stairs. "I wish there was a way to help him," I sighed, "but I already offered and he turned me down. It's gotta be the worry and financial maneuvering that's aged him so, Bret. He looks older'n Pappy, and I know he's not."

"Don't see there's much you can do, Bart, other than losing the tournament to give him a better shot at winning. And Anderson would never be able to look you in the eyes again if you did that."

That was the note we parted company on, and the thought that kept me awake most of the night. It didn't bother me though, and I played again from ten o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night. This time I moved up three tables, with only two left ahead of me. Garrett did the same. He might have claimed that his card playing wasn't as good as it used to be, but it certainly didn't look that way.

Bret caught a bad hand two tables in and lost to a man that looked awfully familiar. I didn't realize until later that afternoon who it was – Bill Hickok, otherwise known as 'Wild Bill.' Bret just shook his head that night when he explained it. "I drew bad cards and I played 'em even worse." I didn't think he had too much to complain about – he still walked away with almost eight thousand dollars.

When we were finished for the night I was exhausted and begged off dinner to go to sleep. Last I saw of Bret and Anderson they were goin' back across the street to Minnie's. Me, I was headed for a warm bed and a moral dilemma of my own – if Anderson and me were to face off, just the two of us, would I do my best to beat him or not? Twenty-five thousand dollars was one whole hell of a lot of money. Enough to . . . enough to pay off Garrett's mortgage. I was still arguing with myself when I fell asleep.

Day three was shapin' up to be the final day – we were down to only two tables. Anderson was playin' at one, I was playin' at the other. Looked like our showdown was inevitable. By the time I finished off the last man at my table a crowd had gathered, watching the play at the other table. There were still three men left there, including Anderson. I was moved over to join them and the next hand started.

Bret was in the crowd, watching the goings on, although I didn't see him until later. We played three hands before one of the remaining men was eliminated; I won two of those hands. And then the cards turned; it took another hour and a half before I realized I was down to my last three thousand dollars. Had I slept through those games? Where was my head, my concentration, my mental acuity? Where was my skill? What in the world had happened to me?

I felt a tapping on my shoulder and I turned around in my seat. It was Bret, standin' right behind me, but he never said a word. He just pointed across the room and mouthed "look up." When I did I saw exactly what he was pointin' at – it was the lady in red, leaning against the back wall of the room. The cards were dealt and I got the worst draw possible – the King of Spades, the four of Diamonds, the eight of Hearts and the six and seven of Clubs. My only hope was to discard the King and pray – and my head was pounding with the sound of Pappy's voice: "Bartley, never draw to an inside straight." Oh yeah, Pappy, then what would you have me do now?

The bet went round the table, and the dealer asked for new cards. I had only one chance in the world, slim as it was. "One card," I managed to say, and I traded the King of Spades for . . . before I looked at my last hope of winnin' this hand, much less the game and match, I looked up at the lady in red. And she smiled . . . but it wasn't me she was smilin' for. I turned my card over. It was the three of Spades.

I let out the breath I'd been holding in for a full minute. I was done, finished, over. I moved my chair away from the table and watched Anderson absolutely destroy the only other man left playing poker. When the final game was done and my old friend Anderson Garrett had won the Draw Poker side of the match and twenty-five thousand dollars, I turned my head to Lady Luck and was surprised to find her still standing at the back of the room. She winked at me. I pushed back my chair and stood up, turning to Bret. "Tell me you saw that."

"Lady Luck wink at you? You bet I did. As a matter of fact, she . . ." He stopped in the middle of the sentence. "She's gone, Brother Bart." I turned back quickly, and he was right. Lady Luck had completely vanished.

After all the hoopla was over and Anderson was presented with his winnings, the brothers Maverick took him out to celebrate – leaving all his money in the hotel safe, of course.

All in all we didn't do too bad. Bret had eight thousand dollars more than when he started, and I finished in third place in the Draw Match and got sixty-five hundred for my efforts. Anderson couldn't believe his good fortune – he'd won more than enough to stop the foreclosure.

Neither of us said anything about the lady in red to Garrett. I still don't know if he believes in Lady Luck or not, but I'll tell you one thing – anytime I see a red dress when I'm playin' poker, I pay attention. You never know when she's gonna turn up again.

The End


End file.
